


To Spare Him Nothing

by StarlightAsteria



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Curse of the Black Pearl AU, Tragic Romance, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7734325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man who had felt less, might. - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice</p>
<p>Destroying him once is not enough for her, it seems. She has to destroy him twice. She has never spared him anything, after all.</p>
<p>Cross-posted on ff.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the First

**Author's Note:**

> James Norrington has always been a favourite of mine, a real tragic hero, and this AU is the result! I don't much like Will as a character, so he will be a minor presence, but I will try to be fair to them all - Elizabeth is probably the hardest in this respect.

Part the First

* * *

 

 

He finds himself utterly bewildered by her cruelty, cannot fathom it, cannot understand it. What has he done? Is he so repulsive? He knows he is not. She might deny it, she might never admit it, hell, she might not even understand it herself ( _he is clutching at straws, really)_ but her body responds to him at night. In that sense, she is everything he could wish for - she is soft and willing and passionate, even if she then draws herself as far away from him as possible, only to wake entwined peacefully in his arms. He only wishes she might one day whisper the words _I love you_ back to him as he makes love to her with everything he is and has _(he lives in hope / she never does)._

He knows, because he’s always risen before the sun _(before her)_ and the sudden way she stiffens and pulls herself out of his grasp _(he lets her go, every time)_ every morning is like a slap that pushes the mantle of despair _(of reality, of his waking hours)_ back onto his shoulders, shoulders already burdened with the defence of Port Royal and of his men _(good men, all of them, and he sees their canvas-wrapped corpses being lowered solemnly into the treacherous sea waters every night before he goes to sleep)._ He has his duty, to King and Country. To chase pirates, but more than that, to keep those who cannot defend themselves safe. 

So this is not only cruel, it is also a surprise that he could not _(ever, ever, not even in his worst nightmares)_ have anticipated. 

“Can you - can you at least, at the very least, tell me the child is mine?” He hates the way his voice shakes - why must he always make himself so vulnerable in front of her, when he already knows she’s only going to kick him in the teeth again? _(A knife in the back would be kinder, he thinks. It has the not inconsiderable advantage of being a quick, clean death.)_

He _loves_ her. 

It is in his every gesture, every thought, every word. 

And still she does not see it _(or cares not to see it, and he can’t decide which is worse.)_

He _loves_ her, as he already loves the child she carries in her rounded belly. He has poured all his love into her, and the two of them have created a child, and boy or girl, he loves it. 

So to find Will Turner’s linen shirt stuffed behind the headboard, to think of Elizabeth with another _(with him)_ in their bed, the bed he had made for their wedding, with sweet smelling exotic hardwood, delicately carved with flowers, after a Japanese silk coat his parents had given him upon hearing of their engagement, to know that one of his gifts to her _(one of many)_ has been tainted - his most heartfelt gift _(apart from the little skiff - he understands what it is to love the sea),_ his haven, where he has sought love and solace and pleasure to distract him from the burdens of his responsibilities, the thousands of men under his command and the thousands that look to him and him alone to protect them, _(and though he has given of all three, he has only ever really received the latter in any great measure)_ sends him to his knees and the sobs hacking painfully through his body.

He thanks God for small mercies - she is visiting her father, _(or is she trysting with her lover?)_ so she does not see him shatter. 

 

* * *

 

Touching the garment as little as possible, he places it next to her place setting at the dining table that evening. _(He does not know how else to confront her.)_ Looking at the white thing _(horrid instrument of deceit and despair)_ makes him sick, makes the room swirl and he fears the mere sight of it will send him into another fit of sobs. He is tired of this pain, and even though the result is likely to shatter his heart once again _(how many times has she broken it now? he has lost count),_ more than anything else he wants the truth. 

He bows when she enters, as lovely as ever _(why is she as lovely?)_ and the thought makes his heart ache even more. She frowns in confusion as she realises he is not wearing his wig - he has not replaced it since he almost made himself bald earlier in the afternoon - and why should he have done? Here, in the privacy of his own house _(the house he bought for her, with its orchid gardens and splendid music rooms)_ he is free to do as he likes, and he is in no mood to be the Commodore tonight _(he is a man, too, not an automaton)._

He takes her hand in his, presses a soft kiss to the back of her hand and hears her sharp intake of breath ( _he knows, he knows she is far from indifferent to him, and that is why this hurt is greater still),_ as he always does, and leads her to her place.

She stumbles and blanches when her brown eyes fall on the shirt that she somehow and immediately recognises as Will Turner’s. He catches her _(he will always catch her)_ and guides her into the chair. 

“I’d like the truth, Elizabeth.” He says simply when they are both seated, at opposite ends of the oval mahogany table, elegant candelabra lit between them. He uses his formality, his courtesy to keep his tone as even as possible _(against her, it is the only armour he has left)._

His wife remains silent, whilst he sips his wine and watches her. When she does nothing more than stare blankly at the clothing, hands clasped in he lap, he drains his glass in a single, impatient movement. 

“Imagine my surprise,” he drawls, taking refuge in the haughty tones he knows annoy her, “when, upon trying to retrieve my watch, which had fallen on the floor under the bed - “ he stops himself from using the word _our_ with difficulty - “and found a shirt. A man’s shirt, which quite clearly did not belong to me.”

She looks up, then, and seeing the furious humiliation and agony burning in his eyes _(he radiates it, and for once, she is the one scorched by him instead of the other way around)_ she attempts to deflect. “James, I -“

“Why are you sparing me now, Elizabeth?” He surprises even himself with the amount of bitterness _(the poison of pain and anger and a crushed, unwanted heart)_ that he allows to leech into his tone. “You’ve never spared me before.” He looks her dead in the eye. Some morbid part of him wants to see her reaction ( _the unadulterated reaction, before she hides herself behind the pretty words and smiles she wields as weapons - oh, how she’s played him! Played him for the greatest fool that ever was)_ as he gives full rein to the tumult he feels at her betrayal, for he knows, even as he still hopes otherwise _(the eternal optimist)_ that what he knows so far is just the beginning ( _there is still so much more pain to come)._

“I know you do not love me, and it would seem that I must not hope for affection either, at least not beyond the marriage bed - “ he’s viciously pleased at the sudden flush that paints her face and neck _(the same pretty pink she becomes when his bare legs tangle with hers, when his hands tighten in her hair)_ “ - but is civility too much to ask for?” 

They stare at each other, one fierce and proud, his veins searing with humiliation _(but he cannot be ashamed of his love for her - she cannot rob him of that, no matter her scorn, her indifference or her cruelty - of that he will never be ashamed; he has loved, he loves and will continue to love and she cannot stop him)_ and the other with indignation smouldering in her eyes, until it is replaced by just the barest hint of embarrassment. James sees her capitulation, but this is no time for mercy _(after all, when has she ever granted him mercy?)_

“I asked you a question, and I will have an answer, Elizabeth. I will have the truth.”

A sigh slips from her lips before she replies quietly. She can no longer look him in the eye. “It’s Will’s.” Then, even more quietly, “How did you know?”

A bitter laugh escapes him at the realisation that she does not even try to contest his suspicions. “Aside from the fact that it is my bedchamber and that I most assuredly do not stuff my own shirts behind the headboard when I have a perfectly good cupboard in which to hang them? The stitching, Elizabeth. I may be a man, but I have been a naval commander for a very long time. I know how to repair sails and shirts. That stitching is far cruder than my own.” 

Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens and closes like a fish. “I - I”

But he has turned his back on her, and he begins to pace the room as he speaks, his words thickly cut with misery. “You know, it all makes sense now - all those excuses for your dresses and hair in disarray - I went for a walk and it was windy! I’m just going to spend the afternoon with my father again!” His voice mimics hers with surprising accuracy - “It’ll be easy to fool James - he would never suspect me of such a thing!” He whirls around and slams his palms on the table. The crystal glasses jump and rattle. 

“No - James, _James,_ I never meant - “

“To hurt me? To deceive me? To so _thoughtlessly_ crush a heart that beats and bleeds only for you beneath your pretty, unfeeling little slipper?” He laughs again, a bitter, humourless thing and damn him but he’s not going to fall to his knees again in front of her _(he fell to his knees in awe and worship and exultation when she told him she was with child so he could lay his cheek reverently across her stomach)._ “When I said my vows in church that day, I meant them. I suppose I was a fool to believe you did too -“

“James, please -“

“I asked you once if your answer was sincere.” He shakes his head, finally allowing the tears that have rasped his voice to fall from his eyes _(his sea-green eyes, doesn’t she know that she could have her freedom there if only she chose, if only she looked)._ “Forgive me for believing that people mean what they say, that honesty and kindness are values worth upholding. Good God, Elizabeth, you are kind to everyone, it seems, everyone but me! You have the highest opinion of a man who not a minute after saving your life proceeded to hold a pistol to your head and threaten said life so he could save his own skin! You smile and comfort the urchins in the streets - but for me, _for me,_ you reserve your choicest insults, you heap your scorn and you lie and manipulate - Elizabeth, I only want your happiness.” 

He slumps, exhausted, sitting down again, suddenly wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and sink into sweet oblivion - let him escape, let him forget this agony. “What more do you want from me, Elizabeth?” He whispers eventually, when the ringing in his ears has subsided slightly, when the silence becomes too oppressive. “I have given you everything I have and am - my wealth, my sword, my body, my heart, my soul, and you disdain them all. What must I do to make you happy?”

“You can’t make me happy, James.” ( _Nothing he offers her will ever be enough.)_

“Why not?” He shoots back. 

“You’re not Will.” 

He is unprepared for the blow that it is; he feels sick, the world is spinning as if he were being buffeted by a hurricane - she has torn him to pieces _(a rabid wolf would have shown more consideration, jaws sinking into his jugular)._ His hand trembles as he pours more wine into his crystal glass, and shakes as he brings it to lips that are pressed tightly closed with the effort of swallowing his tears _(they taste like smoke and gunpowder and burning wood and moonlight in a cursed cave on a haunted island)._

He retreats behind his formality, scrambling to re-assamble his armour after having been so intensely and summarily exposed and devoured. “I see,” he says in a clipped voice, looking at the embroidery on his napkin _(a J and E entwined - merciful heaven, will everything remind him of her?)_ “Why, then, may I ask, did you marry me?”

“I - I didn’t plan to.”

“ _What?”_ He asks hollowly. “If I remember rightly, you accepted my proposal.”

“To save Will!” She exclaims. “And he was supposed to interrupt the wedding - or that was the plan, but then he never did.” 

He remembers how tense she was then, when the bishop asked the congregation if there was any reason why they should not be married _(in white lace and diamonds and with the scent of orchids wafting through the air),_ and now he finally knows why. 

“I would let you go if I could, Elizabeth, but an annulment is impossible; our marriage is consummated and you are with child.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You may utterly disregard me, but I love you. I only want your happiness, and if that meant giving you free, then I would.” ( _And his own heart be damned.)_

“James!” She gasps, and the note of hope it holds makes him sick to the core. _(Is she so eager to be rid of him, then? Is her vendetta against him so great? He has been a long-time family friend, and he only wants her safe and happy. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t think he ever will)._

“But we took our vows, you are pregnant with my child - “ a horrid thought suddenly occurs to him - “Can you - can you at least, at the very least, tell me the child is mine?”

She looks terrified. “I don’t know.”

 


	2. Part the Second

Part the Second

 

* * *

 

 

_Oxford House, London_

_five years later_

 

It is his daughter Elenor, in the end, who disrupts the solitude of his study, knocking carefully on the door _(she is a Norrington through and through, she is not her mother)_ before entering, and James feels his heart soar as it does every single time his daughter is in his presence.

He had not intended to leave Port Royal, but the whirlwind that was his first and only year of marriage meant he had no other choice. Looking at the weathered letter he holds in his hands, his mind reeling, he remembers _(despite himself)_ returning home after six months at sea to a house as silent and as shrouded as the shaded graves on the other side of the fort _(not a radiant wife waving happily at him from the docks, he does not share the fate of other men, it seems)_ and to staff wearing black armbands. 

Elizabeth was gone, dead in the childbed _(from an empty bottle of hemlock he discovers on the bedside table, propping up the letter sealed with black ink)._

 

* * *

 

_I cannot live like this, James. Wife, position, now child too - you have it all. The child is yours, after all, though I confess I wish it were not - if it were Will’s, I would be free, but this child binds us together, and for that I hate it._

_I hate you both._

_Name the child what you will, I do not care. By the time you have returned, I shall be long gone._

 

* * *

 

He’d gone to the nursery, dazed _(numbed, utterly annihilated)_ with grief, unable to breathe, unable to walk, feverishly ripping off the trappings of his station - coat, hat, wig - he was too hot, the walls of the house were closing in on him like a tidal wave, a scream of the deepest agony raging through his veins. 

The child had been lying quietly in its crib, wide emerald eyes flicking curiously around, a little hand clutched tightly around the little wooden figurine of a dolphin he’d spent hours whittling into shape in the long silent evenings of his marriage that followed from his confrontation of Elizabeth _(a gift made of his own hands; he has always admired Hector in Homer's Iliad)_ and the sight had made him fall to his knees _(in hope and love and despair)_. 

He’d lifted his child gently into his arms and marvelled at how the baby instantly settled, ear against his wildly beating heart, and a deep sense of peace _(the greatest peace he’s ever known, the peace he’d hoped to find with Elizabeth)_ flooded him so suddenly, so utterly that he’d almost fainted. 

Gently tracing the curve of the child’s nose, the light peach of the cheek, he’d smiled, before asking his housekeeper and his valet ( _the only members of his staff he’d trusted to see him in this state; Old Mrs Clarke and Pemberton had been with him since the beginning of his Port Royal command)_ who’d followed him up, whether the child _(upon realising he did not yet know)_ was male or female.

“A girl, sir.” Mrs Clarke had replied, a gentle smile on her face.

“A girl,” he’d breathed with awe, staring at the child - _his child_ \- in his arms, spluttering a laugh through the tears. “What have you been calling her?”

“Oh, sir, I would never - “ 

“Peace, Mrs Clarke.” He’d shaken his head. “I am not angry in the slightest. I simply - I - since my wife ( _how he’d choked on the word)_ did not see fit to give my daughter a name, I simply wondered what you had been calling her.”

“Little lady, sir.” Pemberton had replied, shifting. “We would never dream of naming her before her father did.”

He’d been touched by their loyalty, and had thanked them with a bowed head. His servants had left quietly after that, understanding the unspoken dismissal. 

“Elenor,” he’d whispered. “Elenor Helen Norrington, I shall name you. And you shall have my love, dear daughter, you shall have it always.”

 

* * *

 

A highly awkward interview with his father-in-law had followed. James had thought, rightly or wrongly, that Elizabeth’s father should know the truth of her death. And so he’d explained, haltingly, around the tears swelling thick in his throat, given the Governor the letter and the bottle of poison. 

And Weatherby Swann had sat in stunned silence before raising his head and speaking in a hollow voice. 

“I don’t want to see you again, James.”

_(The Governor’s aim with daggers, it turns out, is just as good as his daughter’s.)_

 

* * *

 

In the end, the decision is made for him. A week later, a letter from his younger sister Sybil arrives from the family seat in Oxfordshire. 

_Freddy’s dead. Cousin Julian is handling things until you can get here, but please, dear brother, come as quickly as you can. The Cavendishes are beginning to circle._

And as simply as that, he is no longer Viscount Merton but the Earl of Oxford. 

 

* * *

 

As Elenor climbs onto his knees to lay her cheek against his chest so she can hear _(be reassured by)_ the steady beating of her father’s heart, that afternoon in rainy November, she sees the tears on his face.

“Why are you sad, Papa? Shall I tell Mrs Clarke to bake sugar biscuits for pudding?” 

He laughs brokenly and hugs her tighter. 

“My little darling.”

Elenor wipes the tears gently away with her soft fingertips and presses her cheek against his and they bury their faces in the other’s shoulder, and James marvels that his child, his only child, is so full of light and affection and kindness _(she is equally kind to everyone, even at her young, sheltered age.)_ At her own initiative, after she saw children her own age in shabby clothing and grimy faces in the back of church one Sunday, and asking her Papa why they looked so unhappy _(James didn’t think he could have anticipated explaining poverty to a four year old)_ she resolved to bring them sugar biscuits next Sunday. Elenor had burst into tears when one of them explained that they went to bed hungry more often than not. 

And so it was that James had found himself not only sponsoring a soup kitchen for children, an apprenticeship programme to get those orphans off the streets and making an honest living as stable boys and scullery maids _(to begin with),_ various business proposals _(see here, your Lordship, this part o’town ain’t got a butcher’s or nuffink, and I’m good wi’ meat sir. I won’ let your Lordship down sir, you’ll see. It’ll be a sound investment sir. )_ as well as grammar schools on his lands in Oxfordshire and the Scottish Highlands. 

In all honesty, he’d feared she would become like her mother and take to running around London like a ruffian, but Elenor preferred conjugating French and Latin in the schoolroom or teaching the new stable boys how to care for her ponies, than running around causing mayhem. 

Little Elenor is a Norrington to the core, and James couldn’t be prouder of her. Once, when she’d accidentally knocked over a vase of flowers in her nursery _(and as a result ruining Anna’s hard work)_ she’d asked her Papa tearfully whether he was disappointed, ashamed of her.

_You will only ever disappoint me, Elenor, if you are cruel._

There is no danger of that, he knows. She is too kindhearted, though she is shy with those she does not know.

He lives for his daughter. He has long since given up any hope of happiness _(love, pleasure, a true mate)_ for himself, but he will see his daughter happy and healthy and thriving. 

So why can the past not leave him alone? _(Why must it keep intruding, tearing old scars apart so they bleed anew, and inflicting new wounds, as deep and as painful as the old that have never fully healed?)_

 

* * *

 

It is that morning that the past intrudes. At eleven o’clock sharp, ( _slightly early for a social call, but still within the bounds of propriety)_ Pemberton knocks on his study door, and James puts down his correspondence - estate accounts, letters from friends and political allies in the House - and waves his retainer in. 

“Sorry to disturb, your Lordship, but a Governor Swann has called.”

He presses his pen so hard the nib snaps and ink splatters everywhere. “Damn it.” He takes his handkerchief and wipes his fingers before rising from his chair, and then he reverts to his old naval manner, giving out orders in his clipped, even voice as they walk through the grand, airy corridors of his London townhouse. “Would you ask the Lady Sybil to join us?”

“Of course, sir. I took the liberty of showing the Governor to the West Library.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

“Shall I ring for some coffee, sir?”

“Yes,” James replies as he reaches the doors to the library. The footman makes to open it, but James stops him with a quick gesture. “Just a minute, George, if you would. Pemberton - keep the Lady Elenor away, at least until I know what I am dealing with.”

“Of course, sir.” His valet bows, and James nods at the footman. 

He steps through, and waits until the door shuts behind him before speaking. One glance at the Governor tells him the last five years have not been easy. His cheeks have hollowed, and he walks with a stick. 

“Governor Swann,” James says evenly, bowing. The Governor reciprocates and James gestures for his father-in-law to sit in one of the wingback chairs next to the roaring fire. 

“What can I do for you, Governor?” James says eventually, when the silence has stretched too thinly, and it takes everything he has not to let the turmoil he feels show on his face or in his voice. By God, he is James Norrington, he is a _gentleman,_ and he will keep his manners, even if he feels utterly justified in doing otherwise. “My staff should be up with the coffee momentarily.”

“Thank you,” the Governor replies softly, “and thank you for agreeing to see me.” James stops the uncharitable thought _you didn’t exactly give me any choice, Governor_ with a harsh swallow. “I know we did not part under the best circumstances.”

“Indeed.” James acknowledges this with a nod, but he is not about to make this - whatever this is - easy for the Governor. “You are my father-in-law.” 

That makes the elder man look down at his left hand, to where James wears his wedding ring _(Elizabeth put it on him at their wedding and he has never taken it off)._ “You did not remarry, then?”

James looks away, unnerved. “No.” Why is the man here? Why is he raking fresh salt into the wounds of his grief? _(it has never abated, and part of him will feel empty until the end of his days)_ He does not understand, cannot think of anything that might bring Weatherby Swann all the way from Port Royal to London that would concern him.

“Yes, well, about that… “ the man trails off, and James feels his annoyance rising.

“For God’s sake, tell me. There’s an important bill being voted on this afternoon and I have many other people to see before then.” He surpresses a bitter smirk when his impatience makes the Governor blink in surprise. He is not an unflappabe automaton. _(He, too, is a man, under the uniform.)_  

“Elizabeth is alive.”

James trembles. His jaw goes slack. How many gunshots will this family take at him? He frowns, he struggles to keep his thoughts coherent - this means Elizabeth lied, _(though he doesn’t understand why he is still surprised by this)_ faked her own death because living with him and their daughter _(living as a family bound together)_ was so unbearable _(even now she still manages to shatter his heart anew) -_ this means, this _means -_

His eyes are firmly shut as he struggles to breathe. He pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his temples, exhaling sharply. 

A servant knocks at the door and a footman brings in the coffee tray. James is inordinately grateful for the interruption. There is silence whilst the coffee is poured, without milk or sugar for James ( _it’s bitterness full of ironic melancholy)_ and with liberal amounts of both for the Governor, and silence until the oak doors shut again. James takes a sip of his coffee to steady himself. 

“Explain.” He rasps out harshly. He locks his gaze _(eyes as hard and still as diamonds)_ with the Governor’s and what he sees there makes him splutter and choke. He closes his eyes again, and in his mouth he tastes the bitter ashes of hatred and deceit. “She ran off with Will Turner, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he apparently decided to go looking for his father and left her on Tortuga.”

“Tortuga?” James snarls. _Of all the places - good God. Tortuga._

“Anyway, she wants nothing more to do with him. I did warn her, you know, but that is Elizabeth for you.”

James winces. “I know.” Indeed, he knows only too well, and the Governor has the grace to look abashed. 

“Forgive me, James, I didn’t think.”

The past five years have hardened him, but he is still eminently capable of being just as magnanimous in victory as in defeat, so he nods in acknowledgement. But he is determined to get to the bottom of this, to get to the truth _(no matter how painful),_ so he presses on. “That does not answer my question. Why have you come to me?”

“Elizabeth is in London, and well, it was hoped that -“

James stares at him. “You want me to take her back?” He says blankly, as his sister comes into the room. After all the heartbreak and the humiliation. He grits his teeth and stands in a single, fluid, motion, ignoring Sybil’s curious glance. 

“You will give me the day to think. If you leave your card with Hammond, I will send a reply by tomorrow morning, you have my word. And now I must bid you a good day.”

And he sweeps out of the library with long furious strides and descends to the entrance hall. 

“Pemberton, my riding things please. And I am not at home to anyone.”

“Very good sir.”

He spends the afternoon tearing up the turf in Hyde Park. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go. Please do tell me what you thought of it!


	3. Part the Third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your encouragement with this, it truly does mean the world. May I present, without further ado, Part the Third.

Part the Third

* * *

 

 

_Governor, I await your daughter’s presence at 3 o’clock this afternoon at Oxford House._

_I remain as ever,_

 

_Oxford etc._

 

* * *

 

As the carriage rumbles along the London streets, I have rarely felt as nervous. James has agreed to see me, but I do not fool myself that he wants to. I saw the note he sent to our hotel this morning, and I - I don’t - I know I have done wrong - but I -

I was young and cruel and foolish. 

I know that now. 

 

* * *

 

The carriage halts outside the townhouse I know is James Norrington’s, and I swallow. It is as grand as Father’s manse in Port Royal, and this is merely the house in town. It is five stories high, with a palladian entrance and sash windows. It looks big enough to contain a courtyard. This is not the house of a Commodore who has made his fortune through the capture of enemy ships. This is the house of one of the most important men in the country. 

We are unequal again, even more unequal than when we first married, and as I look at my plain gown _(a light floral blue, a relic of earlier, simpler days when the only thing I needed to worry about was what shoes I was going to wear to tea, instead of fighting for survival in Tortuga)_ I feel the disparity keenly. Despite being dressed as a lady, I do not feel like one.

Not because I don’t want to be, no that has nothing to do with it _(not anymore),_ but because I feel tainted. 

I know I’m tainted. 

And part of me wonders why he has agreed to see me, when my reputation is so torn to shreds that I have made things very difficult for Papa politically. 

Can he still - 

_No._

I will not entertain the thought. I daren’t give myself false hope. 

The footman helps me down from the carriage and the butler opens the door for me and I enter the house.

I am floored by its elegance _(I could never have been the mistress of such a grand estate; I could never have been what he wanted)_ and more intimidated than I was before. The staff are discreet, polite, but they watch me with decidedly guarded expressions.

“If you would wait here, madam, whilst I inform His Lordship.” 

“Oh, right, of course.” 

The butler bows and turns away before I can say anything more, walks through the entrance hall and ascends silently up the staircase, a marble affair that would not have looked out of place in an Italian palazzo, and I am left to flounder awkwardly in the entrance hall, my hands wringing my lace gloves thin. 

I pretend to admire a bronze statue of a lion pawing angrily at the air that is displayed in a stone alcove, trying to mask the fact that I keep shifting my weight from one foot to another, that I want to pace madly up and down like a lunatic. 

This waiting, waiting _here,_ when I have no way of knowing what the outcome of this will be - 

I hate it. 

But before I can work myself into a state _(an even more hysterical one than the one I find myself in)_ light peals of laughter echo around the hall. 

I stiffen.

It is a child. A girl, dressed in a fluffy, lacy white concoction of a frock, a blue-green ribbon in her tawny hair, and she is merrily walking down the corridor, her attention entirely focused on the black labrador puppy in her arms. 

Is this - 

The girl sets the puppy down, noticing me for the first time. Our eyes lock.

Dear god, I can’t breathe. It’s like that awful day on the battlements all over again. Sea-green eyes _(James’ eyes)_ meet mine for the barest moment before the girl turns to one of the footmen in confusion.

“George, who is the lady?”

The footman glances at me and replies uncertainly, holding out his hand, “Come on, Lady Elenor, I’ll take you to the music room. Your aunt will be waiting for you.”

_Elenor._ Her name is Elenor. 

A wave of emotion shudders through me, so strong my legs almost give out. 

I chose Will Turner _(that hateful, lying - abandoning me on Tortuga)_ over her? This sweet, beautiful child with my hair and James’ eyes? 

I have missed so _much._ Four years of her life I will never get back - god, when I left, I didn’t know what colour her eyes were, knew nothing at all about her -

She doesn’t recognise me. 

I am her mother _(though I confess I don’t believe I have any right to the title)_ and she has absolutely no idea. The notion hurts far more than I thought it ever could. I thought I didn’t want her - but I was wrong, so, so wrong, so foolish to bring an innocent child into whatever difficulties James and I had.   

“It’s alright, George, I’ll take it from here.” 

I gasp, a sharp, painful intake of breath. That _voice -_ rich, affectionate, wry with amusement - it’s him. It can only be him. 

I raise my gaze. James Norrington stands at the top of the staircase. 

And he is magnificent. 

I drink in the sight of him greedily - the mahogany-dark hair, the patrician nose, the strong, elegant frame that is displayed to great advantage in his brocaded green coat and tan riding breeches, the black leather boots polished to a shine. Something deep within me clenches painfully.  

My eyes meet his, and the laughter in his gaze bleeds out of him _(like blood being drained from a slaughtered animal),_ replaced with the stoic mask I know so well. I am the first to look away.  

“Papa, Papa, Papa!” Elenor trills, running up the staircase, arms outstretched, and James plucks her up and twirls her around as though she weighs nothing, laughing with her, and the sound makes my heart ache. Elenor is radiant, light shining in her eyes, James is the most carefree I have ever seen him and horror rages through me like a disease.

My God, what have I _done?_

Eventually he sets her down and kneels beside her so his face is of a height with hers. He whispers to her, and whatever he says must settle her because she nods, curls tumbling down her back as she does so, clicks her tongue once for her puppy, who gambols immediately up the stairs to join her, and darts quietly away, as though she were a fairy. 

There is a moment of silence as James straightens to his considerable height. 

“The lady and I are not to be disturbed,” he says finally, evenly, and his staff melt away without complaint. 

Now we are alone, and I tremble, eyes wide. I didn’t expect for him to have such a great effect on me. 

His descent is leisurely, and assured, each step measured, seemingly over-loud, echoing in the grand space, in time to the deafening beating of my heart. He holds my gaze, and I want to squirm, but instead I raise my chin and stare right back at him. 

I may be completely ruined, but I am still _me._ Or at least I want to be. 

I can’t read him, and that frightens me. He may be standing in front of me, but he is completely closed off, and despair begins to grip me _(a poisonous chokehold)._

He takes my hand in his _(warmth, warmth flooding me to the core)_ and bows over it. “Elizabeth.” I shiver.

I curtsey in return. “James.”

He offers me his arm and I take it, slightly dazed as he leads me into a sitting room on the ground floor. I sink gratefully onto an elegant chaise longue upholstered in the French style, taking in the beauty of the room around me. The ticking of a mantlepiece clock with carved golden ornamentation settles me slightly. 

The distinctive click of a lock being shut makes me jump slightly and I look at James in confusion. “What - ”

“Neither of us would appreciate any interruptions, I believe.”

“But you just dismissed your staff.”

“So I did.” He glances at me, amused, as he folds himself gracefully into a wingback chair opposite me. “The same cannot be said for the rest of my family. As I am certain you understand, they are quite… protective of me.”

I wince and look away. _(Oh, barbed arrows, aim true and strike again; I bleed and die)_

“I - I see.” I’m stammering, and I’m furious at myself. I have no idea what to do or say, and I’m making such a fool out of myself, and I’m an idiot and - 

Warm hands come to rest on my bare shoulders. I flinch in surprise. James Norrington is kneeling at my feet. “Elizabeth, you are assuredly not an idiot.”

I blink. 

Oh. _Oh._ I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud. I bury my face in my hands, mortified.

“No, I _am_ an idiot.”

His warm hands pull mine away from my face, and he smiles ruefully, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “If anyone is the fool, it is I, Elizabeth. I was a fool to believe a man like me had a chance with a woman like you. Why would you - so _vibrant,_ so full of life - want a boring automaton of a commodore when you could have a pirate like Will Turner?” He averts his face, and I’m shocked to see tears _(daggers of guilt)_ running down his face. There is so much _pain_ in him, and his words, so self-deprecating, so dismissive of everything he has to offer _(he is the best father, a fine leader of men, an earnest and passionate and attentive lover, so willing to give of himself) -_

Pain that I have single-handedly caused, with my thoughtlessness, with my cruelty, with my casual disregard of the heart of this, the noblest, the _best_ of men. I feel wretchedly, wretchedly sick, down to my very bones. 

I breathe in shakily, gently pulling my left hand free and bringing it to his cheek. He starts at the contact, but allows me to turn him towards me so we are once again facing each other. He shudders, closing his eyes, and brings his own hand up to hold mine in place. 

“Elizabeth…” It is a sigh, a plea. 

I have broken his heart. I have broken _him._

I really am despicable. I deserve every single criticism, every single insult that has been thrown at me, and no doubt the snide comments will continue.

There is nothing - but God help me, I will spend every single moment of the rest of my life atoning for my sins. 

I want - I want to get this right. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” I whisper eventually. His eyes _(expressive and fathomless, like the sea)_ snap open. He is already opening his mouth, shaking his head in disagreement. He would take every single burden from me if I let him _(the way I let him in the past)_ but this knowledge, this burden is mine to bear. And I will bear it. 

I place a finger against his lips and he stills immediately. He looks at me, trying to keep his mask in place, but his eyes flash with so many emotions _(despair, longing, anger, misery so acute it takes my breath away)_ that my head whirls. The tension radiates through his body. 

He is bracing himself.

He is expecting another kick in the teeth, another knife in the back, another pretty little slipper to thoughtlessly crush his heart, to stamp it to bits and discard it. 

And yet he allows me to hold him in place. He is utterly at my mercy and he expects me to destroy him. It is not that he does not want to protect himself from me. It is that he cannot. And oh, how I have utterly _abused_ that trust. Bile rises, sharp and painful, in my throat, and I force it down. 

I want - I _need_ to say this, and my own cowardice won’t stop me. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t deserve it - ”

“Eliz - ”

“Allow me to take responsibility for my own actions, would you?” 

His eyes widen almost comically and he chokes out a laugh. 

“When we married, I was a spoilt, arrogant little chit who didn’t understand the consequences of her actions, and I know that there is nothing that I can do or say - there is no way for me to atone for what I have done to you - but I want you to know - I am sorry - I am so so _so_ sorry. I was cruel and heartless and unable to see what was in front of me and I utterly despise - I hate myself for what I have done to you - there is no excuse - _I’m sorry - God -_ I - I - I am so sorry - and I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to see me ever again - “

He cuts off my tirade by pulling me into his arms and burying his nose in my hair. I’m choking on my tears, raggedly trying to pull air into my lungs. I can feel his warm, steady breath on my neck and he runs a comforting hand in circles on my back, and I burst into fresh tears. 

He has always comforted me - ever since I was a little girl. He has defended me, loved me, held me, been patient with me _(how many naval lieutenants would have been so patient and kind with the mannerless rascal of a monkey that I was)_ and always made me feel safe. 

He is _home._

The notion hits me suddenly, with all the force of a hurricane, and I feel dizzy with guilt and horror. 

He is home, and I have betrayed him, abused him, _broken_ him - and still he comforts me. 

Why?

I have done nothing to earn such devotion, to be worthy of such extraordinary selflessness on his part. Selfish little beast that I am, I don’t want him to let go. 

“Why are you doing this?” I get out eventually, voice thick with tears and confusion. 

“Why am I what?” He lifts his head from my shoulder, but his grip on my waist tightens, if anything. 

“Why are you doing this?” I exclaim. “Why are you still so _kind_ to me? I don’t understand. I don’t deserve it.”

He sighs deeply. “It is not a question of deserving anything, Elizabeth. I cannot do anything _but_ be kind to you.”

“You love me? After everything I have done?”

“Yes, I loved you, and God help me but I love you still. I only wish - “ he breaks off suddenly and averts his eyes. 

“You wish?” I venture gently, urging _(wanting desperately for)_ him to continue, his gaze remains on the Persian carpet. “James,” I continue softly, and he shivers at my voice, “I promise, I am not going to fly off the handle or shout at you or - I promise you, I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you again.” I desperately want him to believe me.

“I want to believe you,” he replies, hand tangling firmly in my elaborately coiffed hair. “I want so _desperately_ to believe you,” he continues, and the raw, fierce _agony_ in his tone makes me want to curl up around him, to protect him so that he never has to feel this again. “I love you. I _love_ you, and you broke my heart - the Scourge of Piracy!” he laughs bitterly, “and you bring me to my knees, Elizabeth. 

“I remember everything you have ever said or written to me. _I hate you. To save Will. You can’t make me happy. You’re not Will._ ” His voice is quiet, and every word he says is another dagger _(let me bleed and die, it is no more than I deserve)_ and I cannot bear it. 

I burst into tears again and wrap my arms tightly around his torso. “Forgive me, forgive me _forgivemeforgivemeforgiveme - James - ”_ His arms come around me hesitantly, and then all at once he is holding me fiercely, letting me cry out my tears _(big, hacking great sobs that shake my whole body like a series of earthquake tremors)._

We hold each other for what seems like an eternity, but it is only when the sobs have subsided to the occasional sniffle that his fingers trace a path _(trace my shivers, my parted lips)_ from the back of my neck to my cheek.

His touch is so light, so precise, so _kind and gentle,_ as James moves his fingers over the shell of my ear, down my cheek bone, thumbing my bottom lip and my chin, that I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears, but not before one slides down my cheek.

James catches it with his lips, and I keep my eyes closed, my neck bared to him as he runs soothing caresses up and down my arms. 

“Oh, Elizabeth,” he sighs. “What in the world happened to you?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please do tell me what you think - we thrive on reviews!


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